


Still Life With Flowers

by Rebecca



Category: Agatha Christie's Poirot (TV)
Genre: Episode Related, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Mistaken for Being in a Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-15
Updated: 2018-12-15
Packaged: 2019-09-05 07:07:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,122
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16805854
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rebecca/pseuds/Rebecca
Summary: Japp has a funny littleidée fixeabout Poirot and Hastings. He is, of course, completely mistaken.





	Still Life With Flowers

**Author's Note:**

  * For [thedevilchicken](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thedevilchicken/gifts).



> Thanks so much to my beta reader [Spirouline](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Spirouline)! ♥ All remaining mistakes are my own.
> 
> This story references the episode _The Veiled Lady_ , in which Poirot is arrested for burglary and Japp gets him out the next day; specifically, this exchange with the police officer handing Poirot back his possessions:
>
>> Officer: One fancy ring. One pair of pinch nose spectacles. One ... what is that?
>> 
>> Poirot: That is my moustache comb.
>> 
>> Officer: Moustache comb?
>> 
>> Poirot: Yes.
>> 
>> Officer (to Japp): You didn't tell me he was one of your unnaturals, sir.
>> 
>> Japp: Just give him his things.

Poirot takes a deep breath of fresh air when he finally steps out of the police station as a free man. It is not that it could have been any other way, of course, but still, the experience has been highly unpleasant.

Japp ushers him silently into his car, and they spend the car ride home in the same silence. Poirot accepts this small mercy with gratitude. It is only when the car has pulled up in front of Whitehaven Mansions and Japp has shut down the engine, that he says in the general direction of the steering wheel: "Be careful, Poirot. There are some things I can't get you out of, you know."

There is a grave undertone in his voice that Poirot cannot place. It irritates him, not knowing what is behind it. The reminder of his personal failure rankles, too. Even so, he tries to keep his voice level as he answers, "It was the only way, Inspector, and it was a plan most perfect. If not _Madame_ —"

"That's not what I'm talking about," Japp interjects.

Poirot quirks an eyebrow at him and observes how he gets more and more flustered. It is most curious.

"What I _mean_..." Japp exhales sharply and fixes his eyes straight ahead. "Well, if any random uniform can pick you for a, err..." He coughs awkwardly. "Well."

"Ah." Poirot has already put that incident away. It is not the first time that someone has assumed such things about him, not by far. As if his tastes in his own appearance have anything to do with his tastes in romantic partners. He knows, however, that it is futile to argue with the general populace about these matters, so he usually ignores them. Nevertheless, he is disappointed that Japp, too, would fall prey to those tiresome prejudices, all the more since prejudice never helps a detective's reasoning.

"I can assure you that your concern is not necessary," Poirot says stiffly. He cannot deny that he has _interests_ in that direction, but he is not guilty of indulging. Not since he was a young policeman in Belgium, a lifetime ago.

Japp sighs. "Look, personally, I don't care. You and Captain Hastings are fine chaps, I know that. But the law's the law, even if I don't like it."

Maybe it is because Poirot does not quite feel like himself yet after his night in a prison cell—the world for a bath and a fresh suit!—that his little grey cells need a couple of seconds before they catch up with what Japp has just said. "You think that Hastings and I..."

For the first time during this conversation, Japp looks at him. He is amused. "As I said, doesn't concern me. Of course, _officially_ , I haven't said anything at all."

There is no quick way to argue, that much is obvious. Japp seems set to take any denial as confession and Poirot has no patience for a proper discussion at the moment. Not when there is a mystery to solve, a criminal or two to catch, and a Captain Hastings to be annoyed with for abandoning him.

"Of course," Poirot echoes faintly.

* * *

With the case closed and the thieves arrested, Poirot is left with too much time to think. He builds card house after card house and re-arranges his stamps by size, but no matter how much he tries, he cannot help his mind wandering back to that odd conversation with Japp. He wonders what Japp sees in them both, and not for the first time, either. Poirot can admit to himself that he likes Hastings, very much so, and that he enjoys the life they share. He can also admit that Hastings is a handsome man, desirable, the type with whom he could easily fall in love if he let himself. Except that Hastings, of course, would never feel the same way for him. It baffles the mind that Japp thinks _Hastings_ , of all people, could have even the slightest interest in any man. For him, it is all pretty, auburn-haired ladies, and he is always so clumsily obvious about it, so unable to hide his feelings, however fleeting, that anything else is inconceivable. It is one of his most endearing traits, even if Poirot can never quite keep from teasing him about it. All of it means, if one takes the evidence to its logical conclusion, that inevitably, Hastings will fall in love for real some day, marry and start a family of his own. Poirot will miss him, but he has made his peace with the idea. So, really, Japp could not be more wrong.

It occurs to him, somewhat belatedly, that he should tell Hastings about Japp's misapprehension. While Poirot does not mind, personally, Hastings has a right to know, and a right to decide for himself how to handle the situation. After all, if Japp of all people has given this ridiculous idea any thought, who knows what other rumours are circulating about the two of them?

Poirot decides to tackle the matter over a quiet dinner at home, since eating gives one something to do in awkward silences. As usual, Poirot's cooking puts Hastings in a good mood. They talk easily about this and that, about the weather, the news and Japp's latest goings-on. Halfway through the main course, the opportunity is as good as it will ever get.

"Speaking of Japp..." Poirot says and dabs at his moustache with a napkin. "The good Inspector, he seems to have a funny little _idée fixe_ about the both of us."

"Oh? What about?"

"It appears that he believes we are..." Poirot searches for the right word. "A pair."

"A pair?" It takes a couple of seconds until comprehension dawns on Hastings' face. "You mean, as in...?"

" _C'est ça._ "

"Oh." There is a bit of silence while Hastings stabs absent-mindedly at a potato, then he exclaims: "I say!" At last, a frown creeps onto his face. "But why?"

Poirot shrugs and debates whether he should tell Hastings certain private matters about himself, but decides against it. After all, the rumours, if there are any at all, do not exist because of his actions. Besides, he has no intention to act on his inclinations, so they are of no importance either way. As for what other people believe they see in Poirot, well... Hastings has his own eyes.

Hastings suddenly leans in. "He didn't threaten you, Poirot, did he?" His fierce expression suggests that he would readily throw himself into any fight on Poirot's behalf—even if in this case, of course, fighting would not help at all.

Ah, dear, dear Hastings, always so brave and loyal!

"No," Poirot assures him. "He very helpfully advised me that we should be careful."

At that, Hastings laughs out loudly and sinks back into his chair. "Really," he gasps.

Poirot chuckles along. The whole affair is indeed rather comical. Most of all, though, Poirot is relieved that Hastings does not appear to be bothered by it.

"We should talk to Japp," he ventures after a while. It is not a conversation he is keen to have, but he imagines that Hastings will want to clear away the misunderstanding.

"Right. Probably," Hastings says with a surprising lack of conviction.

"I could also talk to him on my own," Poirot offers.

"You really don't have to. I'm not going to leave you facing the lion alone!"

There is the bravery again and the loyalty, so very admirable. It makes one want to be swept up in it, sometimes.

* * *

In the end, they do not talk to Japp. Somehow, there never is a good opportunity, and after a while, the matter seems almost forgotten. That is, until bit by bit, things begin to change.

It starts with Hastings eyeing him secretively when he thinks Poirot does not notice. At first Poirot assumes he is trying to assess him, trying to understand how Japp got his idea, or maybe letting his overactive imagination run havoc with all kinds of absurd scenarios—unfortunately, he has a tendency to be blinded by superficialities and to be drawn to the sensational—but if he comes to any unfavourable conclusions, Poirot is not aware of them. In any case, his gaze is never judgemental, which should be a relief, though it is distracting nonetheless. Poirot builds more card houses to calm himself, but even this repetitive task seems to hold some unfathomable fascination for Hastings. The newspaper he pretends to be reading collapses in his grip without his noticing and hangs limp for minutes until he collects himself, gives the pages a decisive shake and starts reading again. He never makes it very far.

When he is not staring or lost in his thoughts, Hastings gets skittish, like one of his beloved race horses. This happens especially in Poirot's immediate vicinity. Poirot tries to ignore the sting he feels—after all, something like this was to be expected—and instead gives Hastings room. He reminds himself not to linger in Hastings' presence longer than strictly necessary; not to fuss over his clothes, no matter how disarranged they are. It is curious how he has never quite noticed how much they get into each other's space, so much that it is hard to break the habit now. Poirot has always been a man of habit, thus he feels oddly out of sorts.

Poirot starts going out alone more, too, whenever they are not on a case. He begins to see now where Japp might be coming from. After all, most men do not take their best friend to the tailor, to their neighbour's dinner invitation, or to buy a piece of furniture. It is a pity though, Poirot thinks. People are rather missing out. Where is the fun in doing all these things alone, when no-one will listen to his brilliant thoughts or understand his complaints, when no-one will exchange meaningful glances or share stolen smiles with him? No, there is no fun at all. "Where is Captain Hastings? Do send him our regards," people tell him, and he nods dutifully and ignores the bitterness that nags at him.

Most unexpectedly, however, Hastings starts to throw him sceptical glances every time Poirot prepares to go out. He never says a word, but whenever Poirot returns, he looks hurt, though he tries to hide his feelings behind lopsided smiles and polite enquiries. It does not take a detective to see that Poirot's attempts at being helpful are not helping matters at all. Fortunately, the moment Poirot stops trying to change his behaviour, they both slip back into their old routines as if there is nothing easier in the world. Poirot is most grateful and maybe, just a little, touched.

* * *

One day, Poirot is greeted by a bouquet of purple hyacinths on his desk. No card or letter is attached. He turns towards Hastings, who is sitting on the settee and trying to disappear behind a newspaper.

"Who brought these, Hastings?"

Hastings drops the paper. A most becoming flush spreads across his cheeks. "Uhm, it was Miss Lemon's idea, actually."

Poirot raises an eyebrow. "Miss Lemon brought me flowers?"

"Err, no. _I_ brought them. It's... Well, I've made an ass of myself yesterday, Poirot, and I wanted to apologise. So Miss Lemon suggested I get you flowers."

He is still flustered. It is most charming and Poirot cannot help but smile at the sight.

"You don't mind, do you? People thinking that we..." Hastings waves a hand between them. "You know."

"That depends on the people, _mon ami_." Most of all, Poirot is surprised that Miss Lemon has joined Japp in his dubious ranks. He usually holds her analytical thinking and lack of imagination in high regards.

"Right. Yes. But Japp and Miss Lemon are all right, are they? Because..."

Poirot waits. When Hastings stays silent, he prods gently, "Because?"

"I sort of see what they mean. But, you know, I wouldn't want to change a thing. It's ... nice as it is, isn't it?" The last words come out quietly. Hastings is now staring down at the newspaper in his hands.

Poirot feels himself swell with pride and affection. "It is," he agrees. "Me, I do not want to change anything either."

At Hastings' wide smile, Poirot's affection threatens to blossom into something more. He allows himself to bask in the warmth of the feeling for a moment before he reins himself back in. After all, there is still the matter of the pretty ladies that Hastings adores so much. Only recently... He cannot remember any ladies recently, but surely this just means that his mind is in a state of disorder. It is time to build some more card houses.

He tears himself away from Hastings and steps behind his desk. The flowers are still sitting there, not helping his inopportune feelings at all. They say _I'm sorry_ , though, nothing more, so that is what Poirot focuses on. Rash as Hastings sometimes is, stupid almost in his repeated insistence on trusting his own treacherous intuition over Poirot's reasoning, he is always just as quick to admit his mistakes as soon as he realises them. The world could use much more of such honesty.

"Thank you, _mon ami_ ," Poirot finally says.

"I beg your pardon?"

"For the flowers. They are very pleasing."

"Oh! Not at all!"

After that incident, Hastings makes a habit of putting bouquets on Poirot's desk. Unlike the first one, they are no apologies—in fact, there does not appear to be any pattern to them at all. Sometimes, a week passes, sometimes more, sometimes less. There is no further meaning in the choice of flowers, either. Hastings probably picks whatever appeals to him on the spur of the moment, and Poirot can picture him well enough going back and forth between the choices in the shop, appraising them for their artistic merits. It is an endearing image.

Once in a while, when he happens to wear a matching tie, Poirot plucks one of Hastings' flowers to put in his buttonhole. Somewhat guilty, he relishes the intimacy of wearing a gift from Hastings so close to his heart. At least, he does not expect Hastings to notice, and if he ever should... Well, he can always put the blame on plain and simple convenience.

In the end, however, things come to pass quite differently. One day when they are out for lunch together, Hastings' eyes catch on Poirot's lapel. He draws his eyebrows together and stares absent-mindedly for a moment, his food forgotten. Then, finally, his eyes widen in recognition and his face lights up in a most dazzling and contagious smile. It is just as well that they are out in public so that the potential audience keeps Poirot from doing anything unwise. Instead, he merely sits and enjoys the warmth that is spreading through his body, reaching so much deeper than his tisane ever could. Denial being very far from his mind under the circumstances, he does not say a word, but he resolves to pick matching ties whenever he can.

* * *

Inviting Hastings to a weekend getaway for no specific reason might not be the wisest idea Poirot has ever had. He is no longer sure how far he can trust himself around his friend. He very much wants to treat Hastings, though, and the anticipation of his joyous surprise alone is enough to throw all caution to the wind. Besides, has Hastings not told him how he does not want their lives to change, and have they not been on holiday together before? It is another of those things Poirot has never really questioned before. He knows he is not an easy man to live with—which is one of the reasons he has given up on romantic entanglements long ago—so it is a small miracle that Hastings so easily adjusts to all his quirks and even seems to regard them with amused affection more often than not. They have their quarrels, of course, but in the end, none of those ever last for long.

As expected, Hastings is delighted upon hearing of Poirot's plans. "Woodside where?" he says, his head bent over a map.

Poirot repeats patiently.

"Are you quite sure? There doesn't appear to be a railway station near it."

Poirot assumes his most innocent mien. "I thought that you might be so kind to do us the honour of driving?"

"I say!" Hastings exclaims. "Yes, rather!" He goes back to the map and runs his fingers across it, murmuring excitedly to himself.

He looks so happy that Poirot thinks it is well worth having to endure a couple of hours in a car. Not without due provisions, of course: The morning they depart, Poirot wisely puts on an overcoat and a muffler.

Hastings laughs when he sees him. "Good Lord, Poirot, it's summer!"

"What passes for summer with you British," Poirot retorts. It is a token protest, however, a habit more than anything. The weather looks actually quite fine.

Shaking his head fondly, Hastings bends to pick up Poirot's valise and the picnic basket Poirot has prepared. Just when they are about to leave the flat, the doorbell rings. It is Inspector Japp.

" _Non!_ " Poirot exclaims, before Japp can even open his mouth. "No, no, no, no, no!" Whatever mystery Japp brings, it will have to wait. Or Japp will have to solve it himself. Poirot and Hastings have both been looking forward to their trip, and Poirot is not willing to postpone it. He is not sure if he will have the nerve to do this a second time unless they leave now.

"Good morning to you, too," Japp says, eyeing their luggage. "Important case?"

Hastings shakes his head. "Not a case this time, no." Then he looks dubiously at Poirot. "There isn't anything you haven't told me, is there, Poirot?"

"No, _mon cher_ Hastings, _pas du tout_. There is no client, no case, no work at all." Their destination is so lonely that Poirot hopes it will stay that way, too, for once. He has even made the reservations under Hastings' name, just so that no-one will get any ideas upon hearing the name of the great Hercule Poirot.

"I see," Japp says. "A little romantic, eh? Well, I won't keep you, then."

Hastings coughs awkwardly and suddenly looks very British. Behind Japp's back, however, he smiles a pleased smile. For the first time, Poirot begins to wonder whether he has been reading the clues wrong. It almost does not bear thinking. But then, even the greatest minds make mistakes sometimes, he can well admit that—and are not the most egregious mistakes known to happen in the matters of one's own heart?

Outside, they take leave of Japp, and Hastings stows the luggage away. Once they leave London and its suburbs behind, Hastings sticks to small, deserted country lanes. The ride is smooth and pleasant and the sun shines so warmly that even Poirot does not mind the headwind, even less so since Hastings seems to be in no hurry today.

Ever the diligent navigator to Hastings' driver, Poirot reads the map and gives instructions according to the route Hasting has so carefully chosen for its idyllic views. Being not usually the greatest admirer of landscapes in the flesh, Poirot still has to admit that this is not so bad—a car, at least, keeps enough of a distance between him and muddy grounds or malicious animals. Besides, the passing scenery is not the only view to admire. Ever so often, he allows himself a sideways glance at his enthusiastic driver.

They stop for lunch at a small rickety bench by the side of the road, after deciding to have sandwiches out of the picnic basket. Hastings stretches his long legs out, unaware of the attraction this movement holds for Poirot, and draws a deep, audible breath. "Country air, Poirot! Isn't that nice?"

"That, my dear Hastings, is the smell of manure," Poirot points out.

"Well. Still! There's something about it."

Poirot prefers to focus on the pond visible through the shrubs across the road. A couple of mallards glide idly across the calm surface, spreading tiny waves that glitter in the sun. It looks almost like a painting.

" _La vue_ , she is very nice," Poirot says, and it is not only the pond he is referring to.

Hastings beams at him. His eyes shine blue, as if they aim to mirror the sky and the pond. They are more beautiful than either, Poirot finds. It would be easy to lose oneself in them. By unspoken accord, they both remain on the bench long after the sandwiches are finished, shoulders and elbows lightly touching. The gesture is teetering on the brink of impropriety, considering that the bench is not _quite_ that small, yet it feels familiar and comforting. As if this is where they have been heading all along.

* * *

Upon their arrival, Hastings asked the innkeeper to send for flowers, so there is now a plain bouquet of wild flowers sitting on the dressing table in Poirot's room. It fills the air with a sweet scent. Apart from the pastoral simplicity, it is not much different from all the other bouquets Poirot has received so far, but the gesture feels rather more significant now. Poirot changes into a light summer suit that matches the weather and carefully selects a bow tie and pocket square. When he is in the middle of grooming his moustache—even the most unhurried of car rides takes its toll, alas—Hastings comes over. He hovers behind Poirot, chatting easily, not bothered by the fact that Poirot will not answer while he is striving for perfection. He only falls silent when Poirot puts his moustache comb away and plucks a flower from the bouquet.

"May I?" Hastings asks and catches Poirot's wrist. His touch is warm and gentle. Poirot turns his hand willingly and offers the flower for Hastings to take. With a concentrated furrow of brows, Hastings busies himself with the boutonniere vase on Poirot's lapel. He is close now, so close that Poirot can smell the summer air in his hair and feel the tremble of his fingers against his chest. Poirot's heart flutters in anticipation.

When Hastings is happy with the result of his handiwork, he straightens both lapels—quite unnecessary, of course, but Poirot does not mind—until that, finally, turns into an idle caress. Poirot leans into the touch and his hands come up almost on their own accord to rest on Hastings' chest. It is nice, being held like this. Poirot is not one to give up control easily, but right now, with Hastings smiling down on him and keeping him steady, he has no objections to just let himself be swept away by the moment and see where it will lead them. He trusts Hastings, and he trusts their friendship.

Hastings lets one hand wander, across Poirot's shoulder, up the side of his neck, along his jaw, until his thumb is stroking Poirot's cheek. Poirot takes a shallow breath. He feels a stir of passion deep within, nearly forgotten after all these long years, but welcome nonetheless. Eagerly he lifts his chin and Hastings, thankfully, is quick to comply. Their lips meet, almost chaste at first, sweet, but unerring. Hastings' mouth is soft and inviting, drawing him in. There is an all-engulfing warmth and understanding, a feeling that this is how things are supposed to be. It does not take long, however, before the simple touch of lips is no longer enough. They shift their heads and when their tongues finally find each other, a shiver runs down Poirot's spine. The kiss quickly turns into something more urgent, more intoxicating, and Poirot grabs a fistful of Hastings' shirt for support. He does not quite want to let himself go, though, not with the door unlocked and the innkeeper waiting with their tea downstairs, so in the end, reluctantly, he pulls away, leaving Hastings flushed and breathless and charmingly dishevelled.

"I believe it is time for tea, _mon cher_?" Poirot suggests, his voice not quite even.

"Oh! Tea. Right."

Poirot sorts Hastings' tie and collar meticulously before he lets go of him, glad that he is allowed to take his time now. While he throws a last glance in the mirror at his own state of dress, watched by Hastings with a mix of tenderness and want, it occurs to him that maybe for the first time, Japp and Miss Lemon have solved a case before him. They will never know, of course, but Poirot will make sure to show his gratitude come Christmas.


End file.
